Jhciacb

May 31, 2023May 31, 2023 Jhciacb

Aye Aye, AI…

With so much talk about the potential for AI having its way with the world, and everyone in it, I got to thinking while riding yesterday, what are we really afraid of…? Is it that AI is going to take control of the world, everything in it, and crush its inhabitants into the ground…? Or, are we just fearful that something else is taking over the job that human beings have been doing for the last 15,000 years…?

We’ve turned aurochs into cows, wolves into Chihuahuas, and maze into Coca-Cola. We’ve turned forests into housing tracts, burned holes in the ozone, and a blown up entire cities, because we wanted to teach a handful of people a serious lesson. When I think about AI, it doesn’t scare me much — I mean, in comparison to human leadership.

AI will probably contribute more to solving the climate crisis than human beings have, to this point anyway. It’s likely that AI will find cures for diseases that exhausted researchers might be prone to overlook. AI has the potential to find answers to many of the problems that confront us, and at speeds human beings are incapable of.

AI might level the justice system a little more evenly. AI will very likely be a better bookkeeper than The United States Office Of Budget Management. And the most likely solutions to the immigration problems around the world, are going to be silicon-based. AI might even write the greatest American novel, yet.

When it comes to solving the hunger problem, issues with poverty, and homelessness, I think AI is better equipped to find legitimate solutions than humans are. When I consider a graduated distribution of wealth, based on merit, I think AI will conceive a better system than a handful of fat cats sitting around a boardroom table, in a hurry to get home to their Courvoisier.

So when I think about AI, and its potential for disastrous results, I give it a pass until it proves me wrong. I’m not sure it’ll do much worse than its human predecessors have to this point. And if your argument is that AI is going to enslave us all, and make our lives worse, isn’t that where we’re already headed…? I’m willing to take that risk.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like 👍🏻 and a share. Oh, and there’s this from AI. Enjoy…!

April 29, 2023April 30, 2023 Jhciacb

This Identity…

I sat down to write this morning, but the thing I write about most, cycling, didn’t happen yesterday. Still, the compulsion to write during morning coffee is still in me. It’s not just part of my daily structure, writing and sharing my thoughts each day have become my identity. And the thing that gives my life the most satisfaction, sadly, is feeding that identity.

My identity should be the people I love, the way I love them, and the things I do for others. My identity should be my work, my actions in my community, and my willingness to put others ahead of me. All of those would make a worthy identity. I recognize this and think about it every day. The identity I covet though, and the only one I really pursue, is my social media identity.

I’m the guy in your feed who rides bikes, takes pictures, and shares all of that to an audience of dozens each morning. It makes me feel worthwhile that a handful of people, most of whom I’ve never met, see me and give me a little heart, a thumbs-up, or a happy face — can’t disappoint them. Really though, it’s myself I don’t want to disappoint. I need those thumbs-ups, those hearts, and those happy faces to fuel the ego that’s directly connected to that identity.

And that identity I covet so much, that fuels my ego, and that I’ve built my entire life around…? It’s also a ball and chain. Not only does that identity keep me from expanding beyond the sum of its components, but it makes me less approachable to others, in so many ways. I’m an island, tied to a 7-inch screen.

There’s times I want to shed the identity — to walk away and move on. But then my ego would starve, my self-worth would dwindle, and I’d turn to a life of apathy, self-pity, or gluttony. It’s kind of an all or nothing proposition with me — be the me I covet, or be the me I loathe. I just can’t seem to be the me I think I should be — the one that Muhammad, Confucius, or Jesus would look at with respect.

And the funniest part of all is that this identity I speak of — well, I’m probably the only one who sees it as my identity. Perhaps everyone else just sees me as me, and the things that I think define me, are just traits or quirks others see in me and accept, or not, but like me anyway.

This is what I think about when I think… Jhciacb

April 8, 2023April 9, 2023 Jhciacb

Grade 3…

My 3rd grade year was, perhaps, the most formative year of my life. Most of the questions, struggles, and dualities which haunt me today, began forming around the of age 8 or 9. Those were the years I learned about war, divorce, suicide, social unrest, and the destructive powers of alcohol and hard drugs.

Though I may have been exposed to all of those earlier, that was the time in my life when I became able to comprehend them. In 1970, the harsher side of life began to show up in my city, in my neighborhood, and even in my family. The innocent boy who’d previously been a wide-eyed spectator to the world, became absorbed as a participant.

During my 3rd grade year, the older brother of a classmate was killed in Vietnam. As shocking as that was, I was more confused, and saddened that my classmate had to go to school the next day. Perhaps mom and dad had no better way to create space to deal with their loss.

A well respected businessman from the neighborhood, when caught stealing money from the company he worked for, decided to take his own life rather than face a trial. His daughter, Connie, the cutest girl on my diving team, had a perpetual smile. She continued with diving practice after the loss of her father, but the smile gave way to a haunting stare which remained until her family moved away later that summer.

A kid who lived on the street behind me died of a drug overdose. I didn’t know it was a drug overdose at the time. To protect me, my parents told me he’d gotten sick on a trip to Estes Park with his parents. I’d later learn that, though he had been in Estes Park with his parents, he’d taken some (unspecified) drugs along the way — apparently too much.

Not long after, a kid from down the street drowned at a nearby lake. Again, to protect me, my parents told me that his legs got caught in some underwater vegetation that held him down. And again, I’d later learn later that he’d been drinking, passed out in the lake, and drowned.

It was in my 3rd grade year that my own parents, who’d previously said “for better or worse“, decided to void that contract, at least for a while. They’d actually done it once before, when I was in kindergarten, but I didn’t understand it at that time. In the 3rd grade though, it was a kick in the stomach that lasted for months. They would reunite, only to break up again, a couple of more times during my childhood.

The 3rd grade is when I began talking to myself. In part, because I enjoyed conversations with myself more than those I had with friends — I could be more creative, stretch truths, and call fantasies into order. But also, because what few friends I had, weren’t interested in what I had to say. The 3rd grade is when I developed my lifelong tendency toward isolation.

It was the year my teacher, Betsy Ridell, frustrated from me asking the same question several times over, pulled my head back so I could look her in the eye while she scolded me. She didn’t mean to cut my forehead with her fingernails, but when she saw blood, her disposition changed. My dad took it from there.

I was in the 3rd grade when the Beatles, who I’d only begun to appreciate, broke up. Songs like Come Together, Magical Mystery Tour, and Let It Be opened my ears and mind wider than I could have imagined. Don McLean be damned, when I heard that the Beatles broke up, it really was the day the music died.

Apollo 13, the most haunting thing I’d ever been exposed to, took place that year. Could anything be more frightening to a nine-year-old than astronauts floating into space for eternity, or until they ran out of oxygen…? One morning my mother told me about an earthquake in Peru that took 80,000 lives.…

“Some of them“ she said, “were probably Cub Scouts like you…“

Mom didn’t say that to scare me. I’m sure she hoped it would foster empathy. But I cried myself to sleep that night, and it didn’t want to go to school the next day.

And the riots of 1970…? My dad would have me believe that life outside suburbia was unsafe, and a place I should never go. The required evening news drove home a fear in me of the inner city, by watching it burn on television, that’s still with me today.

When I think about my doubts, fears, character flaws, and the visceral cynicism that underlies them all, it was the petri dish of my 3rd grade year which provided the perfect environment for it all to grow. And I think about that time in my life, and in the world, every day of my life.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

February 26, 2023 Jhciacb

From A Different Window Seat…

Due to the the extensive interstate and non-interstate travel of my youth, through my teens, and into my adult life, when I fly anywhere in the United States and look down, I’m certain to have driven on the roads below.

Beyond the large and obvious landmarks of The Tetons, the Grand Canyon, and the Mississippi River, I always know what region I’m flying over, what towns and cities are below, and which roads break it all up. Flying over the United States is like being in a time machine that, in just a few hours, can visit every age of my life.

Last week, enroute to San Miguel de Allende, in the Mexican state of Guanajuato, my flying experience was changed. Flying over the interior of Mexico, though I’ve been on a few roads and through a few regions, was strange. No less spectacular than flying over the American southwest, but foreign. No hillside, lake, village, nor road seen from above had ever been in my view before.

I looked for all the usual suspects — Shiprock in New Mexico, Lake Mead, the Colorado River, but nothing. The land formations, washes, and all the towns and villages were a mystery. As I took it all in, I couldn’t help but think the natives looking out the windows in front of and behind me, might know every square mile. At one point, flying over a massive body of water, I tried to recall what the largest lake in Mexico was. It had escaped me that I’d be flying over the Gulf Of Baja. One of my favorite places on earth to be on the shoreline, is differently spectacular from above.

I thought about culture too. My daughter, an archaeologists, once told me that the word culture can’t be defined. I might’ve been the lone American male on my flight. I was also the only one in short pants with a ponytail. The other men, regardless of age, wore denim pants, leather shoes, and had well-groomed hair — and their shirts tucked in. Nearly every woman, regardless of age, had their dark straight hair pulled back in long ponytails. Despite my daughter’s edict to the contrary, I think that’s the very definition of culture.

My return flight, from Guanajuato to Tijuana was different — it was at night. Flying over the United States at night, I know well the difference between the lights of St. George Utah, Flagstaff Arizona, or the quad-cities of Illinois and Iowa. When I see a narrow line of lights stretching 100-miles in length from south to north, and it’s bordered by complete blackness to the west, I’m looking down on the cities of Colorado’s front range.

Flying over Mexico at night was guesswork. Dozens, hundreds of clusters of lights below were indistinguishable — just a scattering of small towns and villages flickered into the slowly moving horizon. A half-dozen large cities surprised me. Maybe they were home to a half-million or a million people — I don’t know. They existed though, in airborne anonymity to me. I had no idea where I was.

Last week’s trip is a story for another blog — or two. Flying to and from though, wasn’t so much a reminder of how small the world I live in is. It was a reminder that the world beyond my world, though not infinite, is spectacularly large — and largely unexplored by me.

This is what I think about when I fly… Jhciacb

If you dig it, please share and help spread the word. Oh, and there’s this from Graham Nash. Enjoy…!

All photos were taken with an iPhone 11, and with no color adjustments — only slight contrast adjustments when needed.

February 19, 2023 Jhciacb

For Every (Fetter)man…

I spent a lot of my rolling time this week, thinking about Senator John Fetterman. More specifically, about the public perception of Fetterman‘s choice to take leave of his Senate seat, to address a mental health concern. Fetterman has dealt with depression, intermittently, throughout his adult life. According to sources, that depression became more severe after a recent stroke. Approximately 1/3rd of all stroke survivors experience some level of depression.

Members of the opposing political party, and some media outlets supporting that party, were quick to call for Fetterman’s resignation. They argued that someone dealing with a mental health issue was not fit to execute the responsibilities of that job. If living and dealing with mental a health issue precludes one from performing their job, at least half of America should be out of work, according to that reasoning. Fetterman’s decision to do what’s in the best interest of his mental health, is not only admirable, it was brave. It sets an example for others, that mental health should be addressed — like any other illness.

When past members of the senate and the house of representatives have dealt with physical issues such as heart disease, cancer, and other debilitating physical issues, their constituencies, as well as their contemporaries from both parties, have supported them. Failing to do this for a mental health issue sends a horrible message to the tens of millions of Americans who are already afraid to take that step into the hospital that Fetterman took last week — to get help.

This shouldn’t be a partisan or a media thing. The stigma associated with mental illness is the largest barrier between those who need help, and the help that’s available to them. That we stand up for and support people dealing with cancer, heart disease, and other physical illnesses, but wince or belittle someone who struggles with mental health, is to our national shame.

I’ve lived with mental health issues since I can remember. I can’t count the times that, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary day, I’ve thought about stopping whatever I was doing and checking myself into a hospital — because I felt I was profoundly incompatible with the world around me. And for that precise fear of being stigmatized, outcast, or perhaps put in the wrong level of treatment, I John Wayne’d my way through it, finding therapy in exercise, writing, and for 10 years of my life, through alcohol. Somehow, and by the grace of God, I’ve managed to stay ahead of it, though the shadow of depression still leans over me regularly.

Until we view and discuss mental illness in the same way we see cancer, heart disease, or rheumatoid arthritis, people will be afraid to seek treatment they need, and the problem will cascade, only to grow larger, and larger still. Regardless of your political persuasion, or what your agenda is in the voting booth, we should support Senator Fetterman in the same way we would support our own child. He set an excellent example for the millions of people who are hesitant to take the exact step that he took — a step that may have saved his life.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

If you dig it, please share and help spread the word. Oh, and there’s this from Tex Perkins and Murray Paterson. Enjoy…!

January 21, 2023January 22, 2023 Jhciacb

The Facebook Prison Blues…

Facebook Prison changes a man. The moment that silicon door slammed behind me, a shudder ran up my spine — it came straight from the devil. When I heard that key slowly turn to close the cyber lock, my soul became void of love and emotion. Facebook prison is colder than a pimp’s heart.

I’d been there before — accused, tried, and convicted of so-called crimes I felt were innocent acts of simple amusement, misunderstood by the algorithms. There’s no judicial process in social media though, just an invisible kangaroo court that tilt the scales of justice toward the billionaires.

My first prison sentence was in June of 2021. I’d suggested in a Facebook comment thread that we should still burn witches. I received a six-day sentence. In hindsight, I see the foolishness of that remark. If I’d only suggested we drown witches, I probably could’ve gotten away with it. At the very least, if I’d used drowning instead of burning, I could’ve built a strong defense on my behalf.

In August of 2022, I got sent before the algorithms for the second time. I posted a GIF of the television character, Al Bundy, pretending to hang himself. That the GIF was available on Facebook to begin with, was never taken into consideration. I should’ve known better though — on social media, talking about anything violent, is as good as doing it. It’s like the algorithms are Catholic or something. Another six-day sentence.

Last week, someone posted a picture of a cat with a transparent cone on its head, showing its teeth in anger. I captioned the meme…

“I’m a martini, and I’ll kill you…“

I should have written…

“I’m a martini, and I’ll beat you up real real bad…“

Would’ve made all the difference.

On my first day in Facebook prison, my only meal was a meatball, with no sauce, just like Cosby got on his first day. I slept on a cold bed of stainless steel — with no blanket. My cell-mate was a deaf, mute with a nervous tick. He used his spork to carve the following sentence onto the cell wall…

“I’m in for using a potty word…“

All through my first night, I heard other prisoners coughing, crying, and lashing out — it was like in asylum in the third world. I just lay in my bed, shaking and wishing it were all a bad dream. The following morning I was issued me my first blanket — it was made of straw. Breakfast was a cucumber. I was shown to my job at the prison laundry, but given no instructions. I just sat all day, and huffed laundry soap.

On the fifth day, the algorithms contacted me via email — bad news. A seventh day had been added to my six-day sentence. I’d been caught attempting to create a false Facebook profile, as a way around my initial sentence. I was told that any further attempt, and I’d be given a life sentence. I thought of my brother, Mark, now in the third year of his life sentence, and the anguish my mother felt the day they closed the door behind him.

I’ve accepted my sentence and will serve it quietly. I’ll do my best to rehabilitate myself, and to resist the temptation to post questionable memes, use potty words, and make threats against witches. With good behavior I’ll be out Monday evening at 5:45 PST.

To those who’ve stuck with me, and believed in my innocence, I thank you. To everyone who’s reached out; your support in this lonely time has been invaluable. I’ll do my best to honor the trust you’ve shown me, by not putting myself in this position again. Ah, who am I kidding…? I’ll be back — I am a recidivist, repeat offender.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This week by the numbers :

Bikes Ridden: 4

Miles: 146

Climbing: 6,500’

MPH AVG: 15.0

Calorie: 8,200

Seat Time: 9h 45m

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from The Chesterfield Kings. Enjoy…

January 15, 2023 Jhciacb

The Quiet Session…

Mondays are busy days. When they’re over, I hit the road and attempt to decompress from the conversations of the day. Conversations go with the gig, but talking with different personalities all day, on a variety of topics, can scramble my brain.

My last Monday client though, well, he doesn’t talk much. He’s apprehensive to speak — because he’s unsure of everything. He lives with Alzheimer’s. He’s the only client who doesn’t come to my studio. I go to his house, because he’s unable to drive.

Despite that I see him twice a week, he doesn’t remember my name. He recognizes my face though, when we meet at the front door. He smiles as we shake hands, and he shows me to his home gym like an old friend. The moment we make eye contact, I sense he’s comfortable with me, even if a little confused. On a visceral level, he recognizes routine, and senses safety.

I ask him if he’s ready to exercise. Without saying a word, he nods in the affirmative. I explain the first exercise to him as though he’s never done it before. I then demonstrate it, because that dials him in. And so it goes for the next 55-minutes. I explain the exercise, demonstrate the exercise, and he subsequently performs them — perfectly.

Part of my approach in putting clients at ease, is by making conversation in-between exercises. Sometimes it’s light, other times we try and solve the problems of the world. With this client though, every question is a surprise that he has no answer for. So in-between exercises, the only thing we talk about is the exercise itself. Small talk isn’t an option.

And the thing is, despite that he can’t name the exercises, or even the trainer, he’s committed and works out hard. He lets me push him, and he enjoys it. The familiarity of being pushed, and the routine of it is a portal away from his dementia, if only for an hour. I often think if he had the stamina and I had the time, he’d exercise with me all day long. Throughout the workouts, the only words he speaks are to ask me if he’s doing the exercises properly. I reassure him, and do so with sincerity. Did I mention he’s in his 80s…?

And that’s the extent of it. I show up, we make eye contact, he works hard for an hour, and I leave. And though other clients might read this, I have no problem saying, my workouts with this man are often my best Monday sessions. Two people connect for a common cause, and both benefit. I have a client whose express purpose is to exercise properly. And he has a companion he feels safe with. Win/win.

This is what I think about when I ride…. Jhciacb

This week by the numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 5

Miles: 116

Climbing: 5,900’

Mph Avg: 15.4

Calories: 6,600

Seat Time: 7 hours 34 minutes

January 8, 2023 Jhciacb

Fighting Sadness With Gratitude…

Some things I think about when ride, I just can’t write about. Some good friends are currently dealing with unimaginable adversity in their lives. Their pain is not my pain though, and their story isn’t my story to share. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about them — and feeling secondhand pain, which quickly turns into sadness.

When I think about my gratitude, for all I have and all I am, it’s often rooted in the adversity of others. It comes from the pain, trauma, and turmoil that life throws at people, who in all cases, aren’t deserving of it. As tragedy has struck my friends recently, it was a reminder that tragedy could knock on my door any day, unannounced, and dressed in black.

It constantly bubbles in the depths of my thinking — the whole idea that I’m just one phone call away from a really bad day, and a life changed forever. Some friends have received such phone calls lately, and my heart breaks for them, daily. It also reminds me how fortunate I am. I’m not sure where this comes from, or if it’s even normal, but when I see others facing trauma, I find comfort in my gratitudes.

Gratitude for my family, my pets, my home, and my livelihood. I have gratitude that I’m still able to dream and live to pursue those dreams, while others who’ve been struck by tragedy, find their dreams stifled, distant, and obscured by grief. Most days, I feel I have more than I deserve. I wish I could give that gratitude to my friends in need, but gratitude isn’t a form of currency.

I understand when tragedy hits somebody head-on, they’re not thinking in terms of gratitude, they shouldn’t be, and that’s not what I’m suggesting. What I am suggesting, is when somebody close to me experiences tragedy or trauma, and I’m tempted to glean their pain, I fight that temptation by embracing my gratitudes.

Anyway, I rode a bike yesterday and thought about some friends I love, and the phone calls that changed their lives forever. Be kind today, please.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This week by the numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 4

Miles: 123

Climbing: 6’100’

Mph Avg: 14.8

Calories: 6,900

Seat Time: 8 hours 20 minutes

December 10, 2022 Jhciacb

2022: The Spoke In Review…

My final post for 2022. It’s been a fantastic year, on and off the bike. Rather than bore you with my usual end-of-year wrapup shtick, I’m simply sharing my favorite smartphone pictures from the last 12-months.

Many of these were taken during my daily bicycle rides, others from walks with my dog, and any pictures that look like they’re from beyond southern California, were taken on the two cross-country trips I took during the summer.

I thank you in advance for taking time to flip through these. You can click them to enlarge them, or just throw the whole thing in your trash file. All pictures were taken with an iPhone 11, and the only filters used were occasional contrast or brightness adjustments. There were no color adjustments on any pictures.

Wishing you all the very best in the coming year. Thanks again for taking the time…

Jhciacb

November 27, 2022November 27, 2022 Jhciacb

The Best Thing On Earth…

Preface: I was born an East Coast Jew. My first job was as a sandwich maker in a Jewish deli, owned by an Austrian holocaust survivor. My father, also an East Coast Jew, ensured we had bagels each Sunday morning as far back as I can remember, up until I left home at 16.

There’s that whole game we play — if we were stranded on a deserted island for a year, what’s the first thing we’d want to eat after being rescued…?

Most of the guys I know would say a steak, pizza, lasagna, a mug of beer — stuff like that. Most of the women I know would say a kale salad and wouldn’t mean it. What they’d really want would be a baked brie and a glass of wine, but they’d never admit it.

Me…? I’ll take a bagel, but probably more than one. And after a year on a deserted island, I’ll take all the bagels, please.

Bagels are the best things on earth. Honest to God, I can’t think of a better thing to eat, whether I’m hungry or not. Not chocolate, not pizza, not a lobster tail, but a bagel. And just about any variety of bagel will do. The salt bagel is my preference, with plain being next, egg bagel, and then the everything bagel. But there’s no such thing as a bad bagel, only different levels of good.

But if I’d been stranded on a deserted island for a year, I wouldn’t want a bagel that’s been tainted with cream cheese, whitefish, or lox. That’s stupid. I could live to be a thousand years old and never understand why somebody would ruin a perfectly good bagel with dead fish and milk paste…🤷🏼‍♂️

There’s only one best way to eat a bagel and I’m going to share that with you now, per my previously mentioned qualifications…

You toast a bagel.

You toast it until it’s golden brown with a little black around the edges. Then, as soon as it comes out of the toaster, you cover it with butter — whipped butter, but not that unsalted shit. In fact, you sprinkle a little extra kosher sea salt onto the butter as it’s melting into the bagel.

Then you eat the bagel, and you eat it immediately. And in the case of a toasted, buttered bagel, it’s okay to eat it like a pig. You can make sounds that come from your mouth or nose — doesn’t matter. You can take enormous bites and tear the remaining portion away from your teeth like a caveman chewing the leg off of dead rabbit. Gosh, I’m getting worked up just writing about it.

Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about when I was riding yesterday. And I wanted to share my opinion with you, because I’m as qualified to tell you how to eat a bagel as anyone you know. Now go enjoy a perfectly toasted, hot, buttered bagel. You can thank me later.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb